


Trust Me (Now and Then)

by virusq



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Banter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fade to Black, Hurt/Comfort, I'm really sorry Lando, Injury Recovery, M/M, No Sex, Rare Pairings, Self Confidence Issues, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-27 21:37:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8417785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virusq/pseuds/virusq
Summary: Blaster wounds suck. For being comprised of something so bright and intangible as light itself, they pack one hell of a wallop. They burn like cheap whiskey, too. No brave face can deflect the pain, as the light lances through his abdomen and shoulder. He hits the ground with a sickening whumpf, curses blown away with the air in his chest.Lando Calrissian is a dead man.But not today.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jiokra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiokra/gifts).



> For Jiokra, whose rarepairs are splendid. 
> 
> Thank you to galleywinter for rescuing me from several (literally) tense situations. <3

**Now.**

Blaster wounds suck. 

For being comprised of something so bright and intangible as light itself, they pack one hell of a wallop. They burn like cheap whiskey, too. No brave face can deflect the pain as the light lances through his abdomen and shoulder. He hits the ground with a sickening whumpf, curses blown away with the air in his chest.

Lando Calrissian is a dead man.

But not today. 

Cries of alarm erupt in chorus as the _snap-hiss_ of a lightsaber echos through the alley, flooding his vision in ethereal green light. The scent of ozone mingles with melted synthweave and burnt flesh. Lady Luck smiles upon him, and it’s the last thing he sees before he blacks out.

+

**Then.**

As Han Solo entered the dining room, Lando Calrissian flashed him a trademark smile. Han returned the gesture with a too-knowing frown. Lando and Luke sat at a table, blue and pitted from years of abuse from hurried rebels. Han stole a chair and a cup of caf, and wondered who exactly kept Lando posted on where their secret bases had migrated.

After a quick assessment of Luke’s breakfast, Han returned his attention to the beaming swindler. He squinted at Lando, willing the façade of joy away. “What’s that about?”

Lando pointed at himself, eyebrows arched in mock surprise. “Me?”

In an attempt to clear the animosity, Luke cleared his throat. “Lando was just telling me about a lucrative business opportunity along the Perlemian Trade Route.”

Han snorted derisively, but Lando’s smile never faltered.

“There’s a small planetary alliance offering use of their manufacturing facilities to anyone savvy enough to deliver supplies past a few bands of pirates.”

“Let me guess,” Han concluded, pointedly turning his gaze to Luke and jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Lando. “He needs a pilot.”

Luke nodded in affirmation.

A boyish grin spread across Han’s face, and he chuckled. Lando set his mug down and stood, maneuvering around the table, behind Han. “Listen, _buddy_ \--”

“Nuh uh,” Han interrupted, brushing him off with the back of his hand. He didn’t have time to galavant around the galaxy on a wild chase. “I don’t have time to play chauffeur for another one of your dumb ideas.”

“I’m quite aware.” Lando continued past his friend. “But I wasn’t asking you.”

Han rolled his eyes and wondered where the devil’s slime-trail lead; Lando’s always conning some poor unsuspecting fool into his schemes, and -- _oh no_.

Lando landed behind Luke, and clapped the Jedi on the shoulders with an over-enthusiastic squeeze. “I’ve already found a pilot.”

Luke’s lips quirked into a lopsided grin as he saluted Han with a mug.

All charm and pretenses abandoned, Han frowned. He leaned closer to Luke. “Are you okay? Does this huttslime have something on you?”

Lando released Luke’s shoulders to laugh.

Han continued. “Blink twice if you’re in danger.”

“I’m fine.” Luke smiled and deflected the friendly concern with a polite wave. “Lando is --”

“-- Charming? Debonaire? Excellent in bed?” Lando surmised unhelpfully.

A telltale heat flashed across Luke’s cheeks; he failed an attempt to hide the redness behind a large gulp of caf. Han spit out his caf at the unintentional concession. He pointed an accusing finger at Lando, and stared at Luke. “Him!?”

Lando smiled, and Han glared; he’d steeled himself for the concept that Leia would fall for the scoundrel, but Luke? How exactly did they know each other? How long had they been a thing? Was it an actual relationship, or was Lando playing the kid in a confidence game? Just how much brain damage had the twin suns of Tatooine inflicted on his best friends?

“Han,” Luke sighed, clearly disappointed; it was a mirror image of the practiced exhalation Leia made each time she explained something to him like an overgrown child. 

“No.” Han cut him off, raising his hands in surrender. He needed time to assess the situation before anyone said anything more revealing. Deliberately, he extracted himself from the table and started to leave, pausing to jab a finger to Lando’s chest. His mouth moved a bit before the words expressed themselves: “I swear, if you hurt him…”

Luke’s displeasure at the display was palpable. Han grimaced and smoothed out Lando’s shirt, in an effort to ease the tension. “I’m very happy for you two,” Han only half-lied: he was genuinely happy for both men, on an individual basis. It’s the combination that he felt conflicted about.

“Thanks,” Lando answered firmly.

As Han exited the room, Lando exhaled a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.

+

 _The Last Round_ was an unlovely little cargo frigate which really should have been manned by a crew of six or eight, but Lando was convinced the supply run would fly smoothly with a pilot, a navigator, and the handful of droids whirring around the deck.

“It’s not really my thing,” Luke stated after he’s steered the ship out of the docks and away from the jealous hug of atmo. 

Lando lifted his head from the hyperspace navicomputer and eyed his companion. It was a loaded statement: Space isn’t his thing? Flying isn’t his thing? Smuggling isn’t his thing? Romance isn’t his thing? Lando isn’t his thing? 

Luke raised an eyebrow at him, gently luring him back into the present. “Frigates.”

“Oh.” Lando grinned suggestively. “Too slow and steady for your liking?”

“They’re really more Han’s thing,” Luke prodded, oblivious to the innuendo. “He would have come along, you know. He trusts you.”

Lando chuckled. 

Of course Han would have trusted him: the man was adverse to logic and sanity. He trusted him to play fair with the _Falcon_ , even though he knew where Lando hid his cards. He trusted him on Bespin, even though he was walking into a trap. He trusted him with Leia, even given his seductive history. Trusting him was _highly_ inadvisable.

Which was exactly why he didn’t ask Han to join him on this adventure. Whereas he didn’t lie to Luke Skywalker about the nature of their mission, his cargo was -- at best -- questionable. Han’s newfound connections to certain Republic royalty would have put him in yet another tricky situation. The Jedi, however, have been known to be a little more _flexible_.

“A convenient flaw, I assure you. But,” Lando pressed before Luke could admonish him, “I don’t need him. I have you.”

Their eyes met and something playful sparked between them. Luke tore away from the moment to flip some important looking switches with his cybernetic hand. A pang of guilt shot through Lando.

It was a miracle that Luke had given him the time of day after the ordeal they’ve been through: a deceptive invitation, betrayal to the Empire, sacrificing a friend, dismembering a friend, working with a Hutt crime lord, volunteering to rush headlong into a suicide mission in lieu of discussing your feelings for a friend. 

And now he had dragged the valiant knight into the darkness of space for questionable deeds and monetary gain. Involving friendship in business ventures was never a good idea; it would always wind up complicated.

“Lando,” Luke prodded, his Jedi senses keen on the unspoken guilt. “What are you hiding?”

_Damn._

Lando Calrissian was a man of many mysteries; the real question was what wasn’t he hiding. Unwilling to face past transgressions and future complications, he opted for a tried and true distraction. He stood and leaned into Luke’s chair with an amount of swagger too dangerous for mere men to handle. 

“What am I hiding? Luke. How dare you. It was supposed to be a surprise. I’m harboring...” He leaned over Luke’s shoulder, mustache tickling the younger man’s ear as warm words whispered across his cheek. “...The softest set of sheets to ever hug your butt on a GR-75.”

+

**Now.**

On the bright side, they have bacta on board. 

Lando finds himself floating in a tank; beyond the transparisteel, Luke meditates with his eyes closed. His chest aches in several places, lungs rebelling against the pressure of the surrounding liquid. Naked and vulnerable, he’s definitely feeling the weight of embarrassment over everything. Years of experience had taught him to always bring a backup plan, so he had doubled down and brought the farmboy along. That part paid off. However, Fate is a jealous mistress: once again, what should have been an easy exchange has devolved into a shitstorm with too few hands to erect an umbrella.

And yet he’s alive and being cared for. He’s safe, for now. Resting, recovering. Someone cares for him, despite the horrible human being they know him to be. Luke Skywalker is sitting, at ease, guarding him. The nerve of that man. He doesn’t deserve that kindness.

Luke’s eyes open and fix him with a sympathetic stare. Somehow, in the back of his mind, despite all logical explanation, Lando knows the only thing he’s being judged about is his own self-loathing.

That warm, welcome sensation easing into his thoughts only makes it worse.

He slips back into sleep.

+

**Then.**

Three little words ruined everything.

“Just sit tight,” Lando casually instructed the Jedi as he released his crash restraints. He flashed Luke a smile, hoping to convey confidence and sliding directly into nervous twitches.

Luke squinted at the man’s suspicious attempt to keep him on board and continued to rise from his seat. “I’m going with you.”

Luke halted abruptly as Lando reached out and squeezed his biceps through the thick brown leather of his jacket. “I’ve got this! I need you to prep the loader bots.”

“Lando.” Slowly, deliberately, Luke examined Lando’s grip and desperation that he remain out of the way. His eyes locked onto Lando’s with a stern insistence. “We’re both going, or neither of us are going.”

“Okay, buddy.” Almost inaudibly, Lando sucked a breath in through his teeth, stalling. His grip released Luke’s arms, and Lando playfully punched him in the chest. Pointing to Luke’s lightsaber and rolling his eyes for emphasis, he said: “But you might want to put that away before you scare the locals.”

With a sweeping gesture, Lando slipped his capelet around his shoulders and Luke tucked his lightsaber into the comm-pocket of his jacket. The two of them stepped off the ramp into the dusty planet’s outdoor docking station, a small but serviceable industrial facility. The station set the tone for the planet, whose status was so underwhelming that its name was mislabeled in the astronav. Squat dilapidated buildings lined worn old duracrete alleys through the city. The people dressed in the drab utilitary clothes of laborers and vagrants, a common sight on high-traffic worlds during the rebellion. The too-familiar feeling of exhaustion and despair had settled into the cracks and crevices of the outpost like ages of silt.

Unconsciously, Luke pulled the edges of his jacket in a little closer. 

“Should have stayed on the ship,” Lando teased.

“Admit it,” Luke responded coolly, testing the mood, “you’re happier knowing I’m not digging through your cargo.”

Lando dutifully winced at the jab but recovered too quickly to convey genuine concern. Instead of selling the distraction, he stalked onward, watching their path for disturbances.

“I don’t get it,” Luke pondered aloud as they continued toward their rendezvous point, “it’s not the cargo; it’s medical supplies, not volatile explosives. It’s something else.”

Lando’s nose twitched, bobbing his mustache just slightly, at the description of their cargo; a sabacc tell he hadn’t managed to erase before inviting the man with mystic powers in. Disappointed in himself, he offered a tight lipped smirk to his companion, heading toward a bar with smoked-glass windows.

Luke snapped his fingers, eyes dancing in innocent anticipation. “It’s who, isn’t it! We’re meeting an old flame, aren’t we?”

A grimace answered the question before Lando could concoct a better excuse. They stopped outside the tavern’s large organic doors, and Lando took a steadying breath before addressing Luke, banter extinguished. 

“Look.” Out of excuses, he leveled with the younger man, “Whatever happens, whatever you see, _keep it together_.”

+

**Now.**

You need a long term goal if you’re going to succeed in life, Lando Calrissian realizes. He’s flirted with the fact for ages -- setting up investments, building cities, shaking all the right hands, hiring the best individuals for every job -- but he’d never imagined the value of said decisions paying off so well as this very moment.

Tucked into the softest sheets to ever hug his butt on a GR-75, he runs his fingers lightly through Luke Skywalker’s dirty blonde hair. The man is curled up beside him, cheek pressed lightly against his uninjured shoulder. He tenderly traces a finger along the soft new skin where death has so recently kissed his chest.

“Does it bother you?” Lando asks, his voice on the quarry side of gravelly from misuse and repair.

“What?” 

He gestures toward the Luke’s right hand with an eyebrow; it’s all he can muster. “The prosthetic.”

“It’s fine.” Skywalker flexes his fingers experimentally. “Occasionally, dishonest.”

“Dishonest?”

Luke rests said hand against Lando’s chest, tapping his fingers while he searches for the appropriate explanation. “I’m carrying on with life like nothing’s happened, like everything’s normal. The stars spin on, independant of who wins and who loses. I meet people, I lose people, and nothing changes.

“Then something mundane happens, like I drop a hydrospanner or slip my lightsaber into the wrong pocket, and suddenly I’m reminded that everything is different now.” He pauses, tapping Lando’s chest for emphasis. “I can do this. I know this like the back of my hand! And … I don’t have that hand anymore. I’m making it all up as I go.”

Lando grunts. “Imposter syndrome. From a Jedi.”

“It’s a metaphor.” Luke slides his face into view, capturing Lando’s attention entirely. “Bad situations can still have good resolutions when good people do bad things.”

“Oh.” Lando’s lip quirks at the edge of his mouth. “Am I the good people or the bad situation?”

Luke turns away and sits up on the bed, twining his fingers together in his lap. “I’m still working that one out.”

+

**Then.**

The farmboy grin evaporated into a frown, and Lando felt absolutely devastated with anticipation. Briefly, he entertained the thought of leaving an exhausted Luke tied up on the ship and tucked away for safety, but that time had passed.

Bracing himself, he opened the door into the noisy establishment and strode in confidently, Jedi in tow. The grimace stiffened as Luke stifled a gasp behind him.

The scene before them was lined with Imperial symbology: two massive banners depicting the wheel of life draped from the ceiling over the bar, incomplete sets of carbon scorched stormtrooper armor punctuated booths, and the patrons themselves wore tattoos and scars declaring themselves for the proverbial enemy.

They drew more attention than Lando would have preferred as they cut their way to the bar. Gruff grunts and smirks were exchanged with a few men before Lando addressed the bartender. The mood began to settle, and the bartender stepped away, which allowed Luke an opportunity to hiss in displeasure.

“I told you to stay on the ship,” Lando bit through clenched teeth, keeping his voice low.

Luke countered, “You told me very little.”

“Later,” Lando begged the man as he watched a thug in the corner subconsciously reach for a hip blaster. “Really, really not the time.”

“Are these your war torn refugees, Calrissian?” Luke pressed.

“Yes!” Lando barked, louder than intended. His face contorted into a barrage of practice expressions before settling on ‘keeping it cool’. “These are refugees. These are the people we’re here to help. There are more than two sides in a war, Sky-- _son_.”

Confusion creased Luke’s features as he dialed in on the abrupt aversion to his name, and Lando nodded as the younger man’s attitude flipped from wounded betrayal to alert recognition. If there was ever a good time for a scoundrel to be dating a psychic, this was the moment. Lando’s eyes pleaded for understanding: yes, they’re imperial. Yes, I was hiding it from you. Yes, your presence will get us shot.

An emotional noose tightened around Lando’s chest: regret and betrayal. For a moment, his mind flashed back to Bespin, standing at the dinner table with Darth Vader. He smiled at his friends.

No. It’s not like that. It’s not that easy. Things aren’t always right and wrong, dark and light. There were innocent lives on the Death Star. Both of them. There were innocent lives on Coruscant. There were innocent lives here. 

When the rebels needed medical supplies, they stole it from the Empire. When the Empire needed medical supplies...

Their conversation drew some uninvited heat. A cluster of rough figures quietly gathered around them. One politely asked them to step out back with the tip of a blaster. Knowing better than to make quick movements in the maw of the beast, Lando and Luke obliged the invitation.

They stepped out into an alley that faced another building, their escape routes limited to a break left or right. The run was too long to be worth the risk. Lando turned to their lead aggressor. “We’re here for a deal with Kempo. Not trying to start any trouble.”

The stocky man grunted in amusement. “Should have thought of that before bringing your squeaky toy here. He’s worth your ship twice over to interested parties.”

Lando bristled as blasters shifted from himself to Luke, but Luke’s fractional head-tilt signaled that something was off in the statement. Kempo’s men were Imperial, and thereby wouldn’t have anyone interested in bounties; they’d agreed on that. These men were not Imperial. These miscreants were the very thugs they were hired to guard the shipment against.

Lando switched on the charm with a blinding grin. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but this kid’s nobody. A moisture farmer I picked up to keep my droids in check.” He spread his palms open in an offering gesture. “Let’s make a deal…”

With all attention shifted toward Lando’s swagger, Luke instinctively searched his side for his lightsaber and stopped, remembering a second too late that he’d moved it to his jacket. The brief infraction spooked one of them, and blasters fired before the shouting could make any sense.

Lando hit the ground, shocked and wounded: his entire body an electric bruise from blaster fire. Men screamed, but he couldn’t recall if he joined the cacophony. 

The last thing he saw was green light resisting the darkness in his vision.

+

**Now.**

When he feels remotely human again, Lando creaks his way back to the flight deck. He pulls his dressing robe closed and slinks into the navigator’s chair, praising his lucky stars that his backup plan is both a Jedi _and_ a pilot: savvy enough to rescue his sorry hide and escape with the ship intact. 

Luke acknowledges his presence with a nod, and the two stare out the viewport at the cursed planet beneath them, rotating in the quiet void of space. It’s easily a hundred heartbeats before either of them speaks up. Lando breaks the silence with the mantra etched into his quiet hours: “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Luke adds quietly.

“Um.” Lando stirs, the scene in his mind failing to match up to the one playing out. “I’m not sure I heard that correctly. This is the part where I tell you I’m sorry for abusing your trust, and you tell me Han’s on his way to clean up my mess.”

“Oh, it is.” Luke cracks a sly smile. “And you’re going to apologize, but me first: I should have trusted you, and I should have listened.”

Lando folds his hands behind his head. “Go on...”

“There are more than two sides to this war, and I’ve been so focused on my own role that I’ve ignored everyone else.” Luke’s expression is solemn and contemplative. “I can’t do that. A Jedi can’t afford to choose sides.”

“So…”

“So I’ve handled the pirate situation, I’ve arranged a meeting with Kempo, and we’re going forward with the delivery.” Luke crosses his feet on the dash and gestures for Lando to proceed with his own apology. “Your turn.”

Lando returns his hands to his stomach and twiddles his thumbs, idly searching for the appropriate response to the situation. Frankly, he’d exhausted his reservoir of repentance with the first two words. “Well, I think you’ve summed up our situation quite observantly. And...” He takes a deep breath, hoping the words fall into place. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you with the details. I would have told Han, and that’s why I didn’t invite him.”

Luke nods in hesitant approval.

“He’s also shit in a firefight and would have cost me the mission trying to figure out how to fire up the bacta tanks, so thank you for being level-headed,” Lando adds, unhelpfully.

Luke rolls his eyes but reaches his hand out to his companion, who takes it without hesitation. Their fingers fold together in the space across the deck, and they resume a quiet stare at the planet ahead.

“You’re going to be an amazing Jedi.” Lando squeezes Luke’s cybernetic hand. “Trust me.”


End file.
